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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978435">The Eight Weddings of the Hurricane Miss Rey Johnson</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkel23/pseuds/Minkel23'>Minkel23</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Kylo Ren is the reporter out to stop her, M/M, Rey is the runaway bride, but they have history, runaway bride au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:02:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkel23/pseuds/Minkel23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rey is a woman with eight fiancées but only one true love.</p>
<p>Kylo Ren is the intrepid reporter desperate to break her story (and maybe her upcoming wedding...)</p>
<p>But can anyone pin down a runaway bride?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Let's Go to the Movies - Reylo Readers &amp; Writers Prompt Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Eight Weddings of the Hurricane Miss Rey Johnson</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReyloEndGame/gifts">ReyloEndGame</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ve made a few changes to the Runaway Bride story for *reasons* and I really *crosses fingers* hope it works.</p>
<p>Reylo HEA upcoming, of course... </p>
<p>I really hope you like this ReyloEndGame. It was a great prompt.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Wedding One: Unkar Plutt</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The warm sand dunes of Jakku, California, are still at this time of year, with little wind to shift the grainy landscape and the endless sunshine nurturing a plethora of colourful plant life. The town is pretty enough, set into the Sonoran desert and made up of little artisan shops and eateries, close enough to the tourist trail to capture a steady market for their wares, while far enough away to be considered a small and close knit community. One would never think, beneath this calm and pleasant exterior, that a hurricane had been given life and then wreaked havoc in her wake. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And yet, a hurricane in this town there is, hidden, nurtured and - dare I say it? - indulged in plain sight.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One might be surprised to learn that this hurricane is not made of raging storms and hot air, but rather, of flesh and blood and bone just like the rest of us. This hurricane, you see, is a living, breathing woman, a hungry she-wolf in pretty lamb’s clothing, allowed to run amok in Jakku, California without any heed paid to the endless trouble she causes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, tall, pretty, and coltish, with a fifty watt smile, freckles on her nose and a personality set to stun, enamour and then devour. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, local repair-person extraordinaire, held up as a sunny paragon of rural cheerfulness. A regular Jakku gal Friday with a can-do attitude and a must-have ruthlessness.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, endlessly forgiven for the endless damage she causes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Damage like Unkar Plutt.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When I speak to Mr. Plutt, he looks dejected and worn, having weathered the storm that is Miss Rey Johnson with dignity and yet still somehow been brought low by her.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Cleared me out, she did,” he sighs, as he shows me around the metal work shop he clearly takes pride in. “I should have known the moment I met her that she would be trouble.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Trouble?” I ask curiously, admiring a hand-sculpted reclaimed metal wine rack, “what sort of trouble?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The worst kind,” he answers me darkly. “Came to work for me when she was sixteen, she did. All smiles and eager to learn. Won me over with her skills and then...” here, Mr. Plutt frowns. “And then won me over with everything else. She’s easy to love, Rey. Easy to love... but hard to keep.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hard to keep?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Plutt, with a sigh, takes me through to his sitting room where he loads up an old DVD player and presses play. It’s the recording of his wedding to Miss Rey Johnson, a day planned and looked forward to for nearly half of their six month relationship. Miss Johnson, resplendent in white cotton, a bouquet of daisies in her hand, beams at Mr. Plutt in his metallic suit. He looks happy, his lined face stretching in pleased smiles. It is, by all accounts, the perfect image of the perfect backyard wedding. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The perfect wedding, but with a dark conclusion. For Miss Johnson, her smile suddenly fading, suddenly appears to find and stare at someone in the crowd. She pales, and, throwing the daisies to the ground, turns on her heel and flees. The crowd gasps, and Mr. Plutt, next to me, stops the recording and sighs once more.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Did she ever say why she ran?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He shrugs. “Just said she wasn’t ready. Said she needed some space.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Did she find it?” I ask curiously.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At this, Mr. Plutt’s expression darkens.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, yeah. She found it. Right with him she did.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah yes, him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You see, dear reader, the plot thickens. This wedding to Mr. Plutt was only the beginning. A storm on the horizon growing.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A storm ready to move on and strike again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Which brings us directly to wedding number two: Finn Trooper</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a charming tale, that of childhood friends finally acknowledging that their love for each other ran deeper than either could have ever thought. A charming tale indeed, the stuff of bedtime stories and fairytales. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But while the prince in this story remains honourable and true, our heroine is no princess but actually the villain in disguise. The princess in this story, you see dear reader, is none other than our infamous Miss Rey Johnson. Miss Rey Johnson, who consumes men much more regularly than any fire-breathing dragon or gingerbread-loving witch. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, breaker of hearts.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, stuff of nightmares.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Trooper, however,  is surprisingly reluctant to be interviewed by your intrepid reporter.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please,”’ he pleads, shielding his face from our camera, “Rey and I are still friends.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Still friends? Still friends? Why? One might be tempted to ask.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, after all, is the one who very publicly broke Mr. Trooper’s reliably good and reliably honourable heart. Miss Rey Johnson is the one who tore out of a church, her veil cast aside and her white muslin dress hitched around her knees, away from Mr. Trooper and the pleasant life he offered her. Miss Rey Johnson is the woman who left Mr. Trooper at the altar for another man, leaving him prostrate on his knees as he watched her fall into the waiting arms of another individual.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This Miss Rey Johnson, still a friend?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Look, Rey and I... we were a mistake,” Mr. Trooper tells me, looking pained as the words leave his lips. “I can see that now. We would never have worked, her and I, and I’m happy now and... and...” it doesn’t feel like it can be possible, but Mr. Trooper’s handsome face falls even further. “Yes, look, she hurt me... but it’s all water under the bridge and anyway, what do you care? Why does it even matter?” His eyes narrow. “Is this some kind of revenge thing?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Revenge? Dear reader, the mind boggles at the absurdity of this notion. I merely wish to bring to a conclusion Miss Rey Johnson’s epic run of romantic destruction. I merely wish to enlighten an unsuspecting public about the Medusa in their midst. I merely wish to encourage our Miss Rey Johnson’s upcoming eighth victim - I do apologise, I mean fiancée - to look more closely at his choice of bride.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you hate her for it?” I ask Mr. Trooper, switching tactics and catching him off-guard. “Friends or not... water under the bridge and all... don’t you hate her for it, even a little?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Trooper sighs. “I did,” he mutters. “Now I mostly just feel sorry for her.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For a moment, I must confess to remaining silent, reader.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll never understand it, or what she must have been going through in that moment,” Mr. Trooper carries on. “I mean, she left me at the altar for...” he pauses, regarding me almost warily. “If she’d actually be in love, I might have understood it more. But she...”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait,” I interrupt. “You don’t think she was in love?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Trooper stands taller. “Infatuated, maybe. Curious, absolutely. But in love?” He shakes his head. “No. She wasn’t. And that’s why it didn’t work in the long term. That’s why it ended as disastrously as it did for me, and even for Plutt. Because Rey wasn’t in love.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, the eternal bride, but never in love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, who always took more than she ever offered.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Miss Rey Johnson, who plays all men for fools.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Which brings us to wedding number three: Ben Solo.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah yes, poor, hapless Ben Solo. A fool if there ever was one, and the unwitting victim of Miss Rey Johnson and her hellish -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a snarl, Rey Johnson crumpled the newspaper in her hand and sent it flying across the room, watching it land in the trash can with a satisfying thump. Snatching up her phone, she pulled up a contact and pressed the call button, waiting for the familiar voice to answer but hardly letting them say ‘hello’ before she launched into a furious tirade.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the fuck is Kylo Ren?” She asked angrily, “and why the hell is he writing about me in the Chicago Mirror?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Who will the next three fiancées written about be? I think it might surprise you.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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